


Crossroads

by EelCity, QueenCimorene



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Art, Castiel's Black Trenchcoat, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Dean is the Michael Sword, Demon Blood, Demon Blood Addict Sam Winchester, Demon Castiel (Supernatural), Episode: s04e01 Lazarus Rising, Evil Castiel (Supernatural), Flash Fic, Gen, Non canon compliant, Not Beta Read, One Shot, Sam Winchester Misses Dean Winchester, Sam is Lucifer's vessel, Season/Series 04, Supernatural AU - Freeform, Sword of Michael (Supernatural), artwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:28:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24550840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EelCity/pseuds/EelCity, https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenCimorene/pseuds/QueenCimorene
Summary: Edit: Now with art by the fabulous EelCity! <3What if Sam tried to get Dean back when he went to Hell? AU where the Demons wanted to prepare Lucifer's Vessel ahead of time. Or the one where Castiel is a Demon.
Relationships: Castiel & Sam Winchester, No Romantic Relationship(s)
Kudos: 18





	Crossroads

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: Now with art by the fabulous EelCity! <3 
> 
> Hey all, this is my second fic and it is a super short one.  
> I have been looking at the current global situation and the Black Lives Matter protests and trying to find ways to help while still in self-isolation due to Covid.  
> I needed a tiny break to brain dump some silly creativity so... here it is.  
> By the way, Misha and GISH are doing a cool thing fundraising for the NAACP so please check it out!  
> https://charity.gofundme.com/o/en/campaign/gish-2020-racial-justice-and-equality

The man wears a black leather trenchcoat that comes down to his ankles, the coat’s belt swings freely through the loops, metal glinting in the low light. It creaks as he moves. His shoes are black, leather, and shined, not a speck of the crossroads dirt he stands in mars their surface. His black slacks are tailored and high waisted like an old film star. He wears a black suit jacket, just barely visible beneath the trench. His shirt is white and it glares blindingly underneath the velvety black vest, the glinting black buttons hidden slightly on the bottom by a shining silver pocket watch chain. 

The fading light casts his face into sharp relief, hollows out his cheeks, playing on his high cheekbones and settling in the purple circles around deep-set blue eyes. His hair is dark, the shadows stain it black.

“Sam Winchester.” He intones. His voice is like gravel, whiskey on the rocks drunk down just slightly too fast. 

The red lines of a demon trap stretch around him, blending into the earth as the sun casts slanting shadows through the trees. The circle ends at the feet of another man. He’s younger, rough around the edges. He’s tall and broad, gangling as if he grew too fast to keep track of where his limbs are. His brown leather boots are coated in thick layers of mud. His dark jeans are baggy and hang off his frame. His shirt is brown and tight-fitting, a white and green flannel peeks out under his heavy green jacket. His brown hair is untamed, it clings around his sharp jaw and settles against his skin. His eyes are grey-green, blending into the low forest light. 

The black handgun he carries winks in the light, feeling out of place in the forest scene, like cowboy boots at a cocktail party.

“Who are you?” He asks, his voice is smooth and steady, he doesn’t break eye-contact with the man on the crossroads.

The man on the crossroads tilts his head,

“I’m the one who will grip him tight and raise him from perdition.” He says, his voice is low, almost a growl and he chants the words like a spell. He seems to focus back in and his eyes shift abruptly to black. The tall man fires the gun. The echoing crack resonates through the woods around them, scaring a group of birds into the darkening sky. The man in the crossroads looks down and regards the bullet in his chest. 

“We need to talk, Sam.” He says. 

“Who- are- you?” Sam repeats, a tight edge to the words. 

“Castiel.” 

“Yeah, I figured that much,” Sam says, his finger twitching slightly on the trigger. He drops his arm to his side with a resigned sigh. Castiel is unperturbed. 

“I am here to help,” Castiel says. Sam lets out a small laugh. Castiel tilts his head to the side again, eyes resolving back into blue. 

“This is your problem, Sam. You have no faith.” 

Sam grips the gun tighter in his hand. 

“The last one said you could help me get my brother back.” 

Castiel nods, his dark hair shifts in the sudden breeze. 

“I can help you, Sam.” He reaches into his coat and produces a vial, the top the same brilliant silver as Castiel’s pocket watch chain, the bottle itself is smooth glass. The liquid is alarmingly red. Castiel tosses it and Sam catches it on instinct. 

Castiel tilts his head again. “We will get your brother back, Sam… but first you have to grow strong.” 

Sam stares at the bottle, it pulses with an odd energy. It drags at his focus and he licks his lips. He looks back up at Castiel. 

“Why?” He asks. Castiel shrugs, his trenchcoat creaking. 

“Because it is written.” Sam frowns. 

“Written?” he asks. Castiel smiles slightly,

“Have faith.” Sam scowls. 

“That’s rich from a Demon.” He shifts the vial awkwardly from hand to hand. Castiel holds his gaze. 

“We all must have faith in something.” He says. Sam narrows his eyes. 

“What is your faith in, Castiel?” He asks. The Demon shrugs again, letting his eyes play over the trees behind Sam’s shoulder. 

“I have faith in my mission, Samuel Winchester and right now, that includes helping you.” 

“At what cost?” Sam asks. Castiel shakes his head. 

“None that hasn’t already been arranged.” 

“What does that mean?” Sam asks. Castiel fixes him with a penetrating blue glare. 

“Do you want your brother back?” 

***

Castiel checks his silver pocket watch, then covers his ears. A screeching whine reverberates through the small streets of the backwoods town. Shop windows crack and shatter against the pavement in glistening shards. He feels the glass on his watch split and he lets out a low growl.

It has been many centuries since Castiel exercised his Enochian skills but he can still pick out her words. He shakes his head to clear the lingering buzz of the Angel’s voice. 

“Dean Winchester is saved.” 

Castiel kneels, leather trenchcoat gathering around his legs. He places one hand on the ground and lets black flick over his eyes. He summons all of the power he can and reaches himself down, past Hell’s halls and bureaucratic bustling, down deeper and deeper still until he feels fire flicker in his mind. 

“My lord, we have begun strengthening your vessel,” He pauses for a moment, face creased in concentration, he nods “The boy does not know,” another pause, “The Angels have retrieved the Michael Sword. Yes, my lord. We will be ready.” 

**Author's Note:**

> https://charity.gofundme.com/o/en/campaign/gish-2020-racial-justice-and-equality


End file.
